Touchez-moi
by pickledfingers
Summary: John has a trying day at work, and has to find a way to take out his frustrations without killing someone. The solution is surprisingly simple.


So! some of you may recognize this work from when I uploaded it to AO3 and then promptly orphaned it within 7 minutes of posting because I was trying to delete it and hit the wrong button without reading the bloody thing first and no it's out there and I can't correct it or sort out any of the problems which have been pointed out to me and it's driving me mad, so I'm thinking this is my second chance, or sorts. phew, long sentence. Dickens would not have been proud, but he might have given me a nod had he seen it.

Disclaimer: ACD is probably spinning in his grave. if we made ACD's tombstone a magnet and wrapped him in copper wire, we'd be able to generate electricity for cities.

Anyways, enjoy!

* * *

1

John had had a rather trying day at work.

Very trying.

It had started on a rather unassuming note when he'd accidentally stubbed his toe against a desk, and had ended on a high note when the chair John was sitting on had collapsed and he'd ended up sprawled on his arse on the floor.

The patients he'd seen in between were... testing. One woman had tried to bring in her cat. Another patient with a slight case of malnutrition had spent twenty minutes trying to convince John that pizza was, in fact, a vegetable (John was going to kill every member of the American congress for that one). Although John's personal favourite was the woman who had sat in front of John with a papercut and had managed to reason 'brain tumour' from the way the blood clot had formed.

There were no words.

And so it was, that John left the surgery plotting murder.

And then later left the bus plotting sex.

Sometimes frustration needs an outlet.

* * *

2

"Sherlock!"

John's voice rang through their small apartment. Sherlock reluctantly looked up from his bubbling experiment in the kitchen.

And paused, eyes darkening.

"Twenty minutes."

* * *

3

It was odd. Sherlock would usually complain about being undressed by someone else, though perhaps this time he'd seen the effect it was having on John, heard John's breath quicken little by little with every button that was deftly undone.

Though the kisses that John was laying on every inch of Sherlock's exposed body may have also contributed to Sherlock's silence.

John licked along one perfect collar bone and gently tugged Sherlock's shirt off the man's torso.

The smile John had at that small, barely audible intake of breath was sinful.

* * *

4

Sherlock had only ever willingly let himself be tied up twice. The first time was a for case (mafia was _interesting_), and the second time was today.

His hands were anchored together with silk and carefully tied to his bed frame in the best knot that John's training could remember.

His pale body stark against the navy sheets, his lips sore from the bruising kiss John had given him as he was pushed on to the bed and laid bare, Sherlock looked like _sex_. John stood back to admire his handiwork. His heart beat a little faster.

Sherlock's face was too composed, John decided. Well, that would have to change.

* * *

5

John was still clothed. It was an odd thought to have continuously while the man you loved had you tied to a bed, but it was the only one Sherlock was capable of at the moment.

John licked at Sherlock's ankle and slowly traced a hot, wet pattern up Sherlock's calf. He began to slow down tortuously as he ran the side of his tongue along Sherlock's inner thigh and Sherlock's breath became laboured in anticipation as John came closer to his cock. The hot wet bliss never came.

Sherlock groaned.

And then John did it again, this time tracing the outline of Sherlock's pelvis with his tongue and teeth, hand gripping Sherlock's beautiful hips, coming closer and closer, and then stopping, this time lightly nearer to the Sherlock's hard heat.

Sherlock let out a stuttering breath.

John dived between Sherlock's legs, inhaling the man's musky scent, nipping and biting the smooth skin, kissing and licking and sucking every part of Sherlock within six inches of that glorious length until Sherlock _keened _and _writhed_ with need, and then gave Sherlock's perineum an experimental lick.

The resulting "_John...!"_ would keep John warm for months, and John wished he'd had the presence of mind to record some of the beautiful sounds he could hear coming from the quivering man in front of him.

* * *

6

John undressed. He wondered why he hadn't considered doing that sooner, considering how warm he'd become. Sherlock watched from the bed, still trembling, still completely hard.

John grinned and then began again, starting at Sherlock's ankle and then slowly working up.

John heard his name again, louder, and shakier, every syllable stretched as if in agonizing torture.

"_John... John, please._"

Oh god, Sherlock knew what he was doing to John when he used that voice. God, he wanted nothing more than to pound Sherlock into his mattress, to make Sherlock shout his name in desperate want, but dear god he wanted to watch Sherlock fall apart first.

He bypassed Sherlock's crotch completely this time, and slowly licked up Sherlock's ribs, nipping at one or two, torturously sliding the flat of his tongue along Sherlock's nipple (god, Sherlock's raw groan should be seven kinds of illegal) and eventually coming to rest against Sherlock's ear.

"_Please what?_" John breathed. "_What do you want?_"

Sherlock twisted his head until his mouth was joined with John's and gave him a passionate kiss.

"_Touch me._" he whispered raggedly into John's lips. "_Touch me please, oh god, please..." _

John trailed back down again to the chorus of _"please_", and this time gave Sherlock's cock the lightest lick, trailing up from the base and gently teasing the head.

"_Fuck..._" Sherlock 's trembling whisper hung in the air

And then John pulled away.

* * *

7

Lubricant was ridiculously easy to find in their house.

John squeezed small amount onto his index finger and then sank between Sherlock's legs, admiring the pink puckered hole in front of him He circled it gently, Sherlock's already sensitive skin causing the man to buck.

"_John..._" the pleading didn't need to be said. His voice was carrying it perfectly.

John took pity. He re-lubricated his index finger and gently pushed it inside Sherlock, crooking his finger once he was in far enough. Sherlock inhaled sharply and then let out a string of expletives that would have made _anyone_ blush.

Anyone except for John, that is. John grinned at his success, and then manoeuvred forwards and gave Sherlock's entire length a good, solid lick.

Sherlock moaned again, and then mouthed something which looked suspiciously like, "Finally..."

* * *

8

Sherlock really was ridiculously sensitive once given the proper warm-up. John was swirling his tongue around the tip of Sherlock's cock, and stroking his prostate with two fingers. His ministrations were intense enough that Sherlock was growing harder, if that was at all possible, but John was deliberately keeping them soft enough that Sherlock wouldn't orgasm. Or at least, not for a while yet.

He carefully added a third finger to the two that were inside Sherlock, and watched Sherlock squirm, trying to force John's hands to thrust in to him and perhaps bring some relief.

When John pulled his mouth away, Sherlock actually cried out.

John grinned and then started at Sherlock's ankle again, licking his way up until he was eye to eye with the debauched consulting detective and then gave him a passionate kiss that was all fire and promise. They parted breathless, and John took the opportunity to untie Sherlock's hands from the bed. It seemed needlessly difficult to fuck when they were in that position.

Sherlock still complained a little when John moved him until he was on all fours on the bed, though John knew that his grumbling was more for the principal of the thing – Sherlock would make it known if he had a problem with what you were doing (probably by correcting you).

The first few thrusts were gentle, searching for Sherlock's prostate, though once the detective made a groan that could only be described as _raw_, John memorized and unerringly hit that spot over and over losing himself in the tight warmth, until Sherlock groaned and clenched around John, bringing John over the edge with him with a shout.

They collapsed on to the bed with a huff.

* * *

9

Some of his more annoying patients were starting to remind John of Sherlock's homeless network.

He paused as the realization hit him, berating himself for not recognizing Wiggins from the case the week before.

Really, all the man had to do was _ask_.


End file.
